Responsive to the bard’s melodious lay,
Or when in mournful strains his voice was heard,
Or when he sang in tuneful numbers gay;
Each trembling chord within her breast would play
Like an Æolian harp, with concord sweet;
And though no sound her feelings would betray,
Her soul was all with melody replete—
O, it was music’s self—an instrument complete.
XIII.
Was she not lovely? Ye who loved her, tell!